"So..." Ciara started. Aldrin wasn't the only one having troubles jump starting the conversation hanging in the air. Luckily, she wasn't bound by some cultural norms to charm the knickers off anyone with a few well-placed adjectives and pollen encrusted weeds. "Your brother is still alive. That has to be a relief?"
Aldrin's own eyes shifted down past his legs, kicking hard into the rock with his heels, "Yeah, sure, great to hear he survived." He didn't even try to disguise his tone more in line with someone just ordered to take a bath. "After all, he was the one raised to take the crown," the prince muttered to his shoes, "Taught since birth how to wave a sword and order people about. The idea of me getting anywhere near the throne sent my teacher into a full on hive breakout."
"Really?"
"And I was just sitting in it drawing on an old shield, but the man flailed about as if I'd ordered an attack on the Bogeyman. He cried for assistance from any knight within a mile radius."
Ciara snickered at the idea of young Aldrin curled up in the oversized chair grinning at those panicking around him. "I don't think you'd be so bad as king," she said to him.
"No?" his eyes broke from his socks to look over at her. The sun warmed her skin so it sparkled like the rock below.
Her eyes held his for a beat too long and that sickly feeling crept along her stomach. She broke the stare to watch her hand land onto the ground as she plucked absently at the dead grass. "And your brother has one very large problem yet to deal with."
"Oh?" Aldrin asked, enjoying the idea of Henrik having to deal with anything more complicated than which is the front side of his trousers.
"If he survived, if Albrant survived, if my...if my father survived, then there's a likely chance the traitor survived as well."
The traitor. The man who'd thrown open the gates to the enemy, sold his soul to the Empire that waltzed in and assassinated his father. Aldrin spent feverish nights strumming up fantasies where he confronted this demon and, in a whirl of wit, demanded of him, "You tried to destroy the line of Ostero, and with it I destroy you," before he sunk his sword deep into the shadow man's chest. But as their journey threw more rocks into the wheels, revenge slipped further and further into the back of his mind.
"I am uncertain who it could even be," he muttered to himself, placing his forehead in his hands.
"Did your father have a lot of enemies?" Ciara asked, because someone had to.
Aldrin looked over at her, his fingers framing his eyes, "He was King; if he didn't have enemies he wasn't doing it right." The boy sighed and leaned back, his arms catching behind him, "By all logic, anyone who was in the hall when the attack occurred couldn't have been the traitor."
"That rules out my father," Ciara said sharply.
"I never entertained the thought," Aldrin admitted to her.
"Thanks," Ciara said, even though she wasn't certain what kind of a man he was anymore.
"Many of the lesser knights and hired mercenaries moved about in the back like sheep drifting around the feed," Aldrin recounted as if the scene played before his mind a thousand times before, "the nobler of the nobles were up front near my father." Most of them were beards with wobbly chins to the boy who paid no heed to the machinations of Barons and Earls and people coated in gold droppings.
"What of the Queen?" Ciara tossed out, "Seems she ran off and raised an army really quick."
The boy nodded. The warrior queen, cowed into a life behind the King and facing diminishing power as the crowned prince grew in strength. Sell her husband to the Empire and, in the chaos, man the throne against the armies marching their lands. To turn on her own family would take a heart icier than the glaciers that flanked the edge of their territory.
"Well, whoever it was, he's most likely not with the army," Ciara said resolutely.
"Why?"
"The Prince is still alive," she said simply.
Aldrin didn't fail to note the capitalization in her "Prince." Henrik was the leader, Little Bonny the follower. What was shall forever be. It stung under his skin, to have this entire fight for months to have been for not.
Cia read the pain crawling across his face at the insignificant place he held in the universe. Placing her hand on his knee she asked, "Are you all right?"
The connection threw him from his maudlin thoughts, and he sat bolt upright, his own hand coming to rest over hers. That caused even more panic, as his vagrant hand raced up to the back of his neck. His cheeks burned hotter than the setting sun.
The girl beside him chuckled quietly and failed to stop her inner thoughts, "You're cute when you're embarrassed."
Ciara's hand smacked into her forehead and she'd have scrambled to her feet and ran for it if Aldrin had not responded dejectedly with, "My brother's the cute one."
"Wait, what?" she stopped her escape, her hand slacking on the ground.
"'Hair as golden as the sun, eyes the shade of a storm over the sea, arms thicker than oak, a butt that won't quit.' That's what the girls would yell out whenever he passed." He smiled wickedly, "though I'd always add the lost stanza, 'Legs of a chicken and breath twice as pungent.'"
"I didn't see much of him," Ciara said, her mind having trouble piercing back to her life before the world shattered, "I think I trod on his toe once."
Aldrin smiled at the idea of his brother facing down the interminable force of her stepping all over his prized riding boots with the three inch heels so he'd tower over Sir Thomas. "He was a prig. And now he's king."
"Long live King Prig," Ciara said, raising her arm in a false toast.
Aldrin joined her, pretending to clink his hand against her imaginary cup, before tossing back his head as the invisible liquor failed to burn his throat. He still shook his head in mimic of the old knights drinking something more approaching turpentine than alcohol, and laughed.
Ciara placed her own imaginary cup in her lap and glanced down into it. For the first time since she'd emerged from an escape tunnel to spend the night suspended over a bear trap she wasn't in a headlong rush to get to her Father. He'd gone and found his own prince to strap to the throne. It never much mattered whose head was under the crown as long as it was someone's. And preferably not that donkey after a rather creative series of civil wars some centuries back.
Maybe a life with the Historians was the answer; translating ancient texts, keeping the academics from poisoning themselves, and seeing the world. A world that hovered on the brink of collapse. She wondered, were it not for the ex-priest so good at jamming his foot into his mouth, if the Historians would have stopped to help this town. Or any town ravaged by war. Assistance came much easier to someone with resources.
And Aldrin wasn't so bad, once she got used to his occasional bouts of verbal diarrhea punctuated by long droughts of silence. For being the nobbiest of the nobs, he actually had a moment or two where she didn't want to yank her hair out. Even on occasion, she found herself liking him.
"I was looking through some of the Casamir books we've collected," he started, trying to fill the comfortable silence that fell between them. "He, She, Cas, her sword is mentioned in her death tale. It confirms my theory that it was buried with her, though the book, possibly written by the man who buried her, makes no mention of the tomb. And..."
His thoughts tumbled off their cliff as his gallivanting eyes stopped for a moment upon the girl smirking at the prince's babble. The final rays of the sun crested across the land, shading the world a warm pink. 'It worked well with black,' was all Aldrin could think as bemused brown eyes tried to lead him onto his next thought.
This is the moment, his brain screamed at him, but offered up no more suggestions or help, falling silent as all the blood drained elsewhere. Aldrin twisted his fingers around his thumb and went careening over the social cliff he'd been building for months.
"This is incredibly stupid," he mumbled under his breath. Ciara only had enough time to slot together his words before his clammy hand slipped into hers. He grinned sheepishly at her, as if he'
d made some major move. In the insane game of courtly love, he probably had.
Throwing her shield to the wind, she leaned into his face, dodging that extreme Ostero nose, and cupped her lips around his very startled ones. It took two heartbeats before the prince realized what was happening and another one until he returned the kiss. Birds tweeted and music swelled, well a few crows cawed at the intruders stalking through their woods and his own pounding heart mimicked a drum, but it was enough to make the no longer future king feel dizzy.
She finally broke contact, leaning back so he could take in the orange glow dancing upon her face. For a moment Ciara seemed as if she'd smile but then her face fell and her eyes turned to the side pulling her head.
"Oh gods, no!" she screamed before scrabbling to her feet and, without turning to look back at the confused prince, ran into the woods.
It couldn't have been that bad, could it? Aldrin was prepared to feel very sorry for himself as his eyes fell to his hand, also dancing in the orange light that wasn't coming from the now slumbering sun. He spun in place to watch flames rise over the treetops of the caravan's campsite. Aldrin didn't even realize he'd risen, before he was ten paces into the woods.
Acrid smoke seeped through the closed door of caravan three, rolling around the floor like a wet dog until it found purchase in one of the nostrils trying to get a quick twenty winks. Chase's eyes flew open as did the brother slumbering beside him.
"Fire?" Chance asked his twin, who was already jamming on shoes, not bothering with the laces.
"Fire," Chase said determinedly and kicked open his door to the hell mouth before them.
Flames danced across the moonless night like very peculiar circus acts from parts that were particular about their cheese, leaping and spinning from the tufts of dead grass poking through the snow. Chase rushed to the first grass fire he could find and brought his large boot down upon it. This mostly pissed the fire off.
"Snow!" Chance, still trying to get his last shoe on, ordered from the door, "Throw snow on it."
Chase didn't pause as he kicked the quickly melting snow onto the fire, which acquiesced to the insistent water. The twin looked back at his brother to give a thumbs up and his jaw dropped.
Behind, two caravans glowed in the night like combusting kindling as thirty foot tall flames consumed them. Chase didn't say a word as he fell into a run around what had been his home for over a decade and straight into the madness of men trying to decide what in their flammable life is worthy of rescuing. Two of the associate professors dashed about in circles, books piled in their arms, before running into each other and falling down. Chase vaulted over the pair, coming to a skittering halt at a bucket line headed by none other than Pajamas passing as much snow as they could find from the north side of the clearing onto their blazing home.
"Put 'yer backs into it, ya daisies!" he shouted as he tossed the fifth bucket of slush onto the flames. Mitrione heaved his lunch into his bucket out of exertion. Pajamas looked down at the globs of half digested oatmeal and shrugged before tossing it onto the fire. Not even the wanton destruction of the veins of the fire god wanted to get anywhere near Mitrone's digestive tract. The flames dampened down to a slightly sloping inferno.
Chase's concentration broke as he spied the other caravan, smallest of them all, burning to ash unnoticed. Chance came bounding around the corner, calling after his brother. "Chase, what's happening?" He arrived just in time to watch his twin dash head first into the flames that engulfed their blind leader.
In the confusion, a body -- practiced in the art of causing a ruckus -- dashed from behind the first infidel's torture wagon towards the other two fiendishly parked a further distance away. The gods were testing him tonight, but his resolve was strong. He'd heard this call many times before, but never so incessantly as when the devils invaded his town. Two of them, no doubt fresh off sacrificing virginal young men who just hadn't found the right girl to deal with how fucking nice they were, danced about in the fire. They even patted each other on the back for a job well done, the heathens. He shifted the bottles full of oil deeper into his pockets, afraid that one of the demons would see him and take it.
He crept along the edge of the unburning demon-mobile, letting all the others rush off to his early work. Careful eyes checked to make certain he wasn't being followed before he slid his ass along the back bumper and into the lonely courtyard of the damned. All was silent, not even a cooking fire lit up the starless sky, but he could see. By the guiding light of those residing between his ears, he easily spotted the speckled wagon, sitting there, taunting him. Its open door flapped in the wind rising from the extreme heat. "Shut up!" he cried, covering his ears. But the wagon wouldn't listen; the door creaked even louder, judging him.
Reaching into his pocket, he dropped his shielded lantern to the ground and grabbed one of the bottles of oil. His arm raised it high, ready to throw into the jabbering maw of that wooden demon. The bottle shattered above him as something struck through the glass and embedded into his arm. He chewed off his lips trying to stifle the scream of an arrow shredding into his wrist and the oil dripping down his throat and into his eyes. Rage fueling him, he glared out into the darkness, hunting for what dared try and stop the work of the gods.
Moving like a cat, an entire species of the many minions of the dark evil itself, a man appeared with a bow drawn. Only he was no man. He may have been man sized, and moved like a man, but only a demon was the same color of pitch, the same hue of a dead night. And had the eyesight of a very evil eagle.
Fumbling with a bleeding arm, he reached to pull out another bottle of oil.
"Go on and try it," the demon said, his voice sweeter than one of gran's biscuits. He lowered the drawn arrow and quickly swiped a small stick upon his arm. It flamed to life by all the dark powers of a sorcerer. The haunted flame rose to his face and the demon grinned, "You're coated in enough oil, you'll burn for days."
The only defender of the gods roared at his conundrum. The demon smiled before flicking the match away and punching the lunatic squarely in the jaw. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Ciara was out of breath, but she ignored the burning stitch running all along her body as she broke through the trees. Madness engulfed most of the Historians fighting against the last vestiges of the fire consuming their home. The roof long ago collapsed against the heat, taking the floor with it. The wagon looked more like a very crispy doughnut. Mitrione stumbled past, his robes tattered and catching on the piles of books first rescued then tossed to the ground. A man, his face so soot stained he was darker than Ciara, grabbed a pair of buckets before diving back into the flames. She tried to take a head count in the crazed darkness but lost her place in the flurry of robes blending into the smoke clinging to her eyes and working its way down her throat.
A hand grabbed her elbow and she turned to find Aldrin beside her, the run wreaking havoc on his lungs that could barely find any oxygen in the carcinogenic air. "What..." he started to ask before the tar in the air clung to his tongue, and the prince bent into a coughing fit. She turned from him and a merciful breeze parted the smoke. Another of the caravans was nothing but flame in the night, none of the brothers even bothering to extinguish it. But a lone figure stood vigil.
Still holding onto the hacking prince, she pulled him deep into the fray, around the bucket line that was running out of snow. Ciara shut her eyes tight as the smoke tried to dig in with its claws and up her nose. She'd be smelling nothing but charred books for weeks. After dodging around what looked like Dean Dean behind a growing stack of salvaged research, the girl found the lone figure watching the caravan burn.
He didn't move as she bumped into him. Opening her eyes, she found Chance, his hands hanging limply at his side. "What is it?" she hollered through the roaring flames cracking and splintering in the winter night.
A voice with the marrow hollowed out responded curtly, "Chase is in there."
"WHAT?!" Aldrin yelled back, "We have to get him out
of there!"
Chance shook his head slowly, "He went after the Chancellor."
"Medwin," Ciara whispered softly. She marched determinedly forward, trying to shake off any fear of the fire, but a strong hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Chance didn't look down at her, his eyes never leaving the spot he lost his brother, "No ma'am, them supports is about to give out. It's too dangerous."
"But.." she tried to argue, smoky tears building behind her eyes that fought through this hostile environment.
"I know," he answered back.
The girl and her prince both turned towards the crumbling wagon and held their breath as the entire structure shuddered. One of the back windows burst in a rain of glass as the flames found something particularly tasty. Instinctively, Ciara threw her arms around Aldrin and tried to shield him from the flying clear daggers, but most landed far away from them. Chance didn't even flinch, his eyes never wavering from the still open doorframe to hell. The smoke danced about in the volcanic heat, casting shadows where no man walked. His fingers dug into his palm, slicing flesh with poorly trimmed nails each time one of the false fire shadows walked across the door.
Keeping his vigil became more difficult as the smoke thickened with each passing second. He was so focused on his brother, Chance didn't even realize he was crying; the tears left deep streaks in the soot burning his face.
"There!" Aldrin cried out suddenly.
Ciara shook her head, seeing nothing but shades and fog, but Chance stepped closer, his fist dribbling a small trail of blood. The smoke burst from the doorframe, giving a final push against sagging walls. It wouldn't be long now.
And...yes, there, behind the smoke moved something much thicker. A shadow, with another slung over its back like a pack of wood. Chance's fist dropped and he raced into the smoke, as another window blew.
The King's Blood Page 38
